


The Three Irishmen of Downton

by KieranVieran



Category: Captain America (Movies), Downton Abbey
Genre: Anglo-Irish Relations, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon Disabled Character, Class Issues, Crossover, Gen, Irish Language, Irish Sarah Rogers, Irish Steve Rogers, Period-Typical Ableism, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sybil Lives, There's too much to explain in just the tags... sorry, irish bucky barnes, matthew lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2019-10-04 02:39:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17296175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KieranVieran/pseuds/KieranVieran
Summary: The boys are sent to live with their maternal uncle, Tom Branson. Seán "Steven" and Seamus "Bucky" are half-brothers through their mother, Sorcha "Sarah" Rogers, née Branson. Life, as Mrs. Hughes would put it, has been unkind to Tom's younger sister.





	1. The Letter

The post had arrived late, of course, but it seemed as if everything was being delayed by the awful weather, which for Downton was saying something. Primarily that it was the type of gloomy English morning, where no living soul wanted to leave bed. Not even the Dowager Countess, hard as that is to believe. The frigid air was only cut by absolute sheets of rain, that looked more like translucent pasta dough than precipitation.

Nevertheless, slowly, downstairs and up, and across the estate, everyone eventually set about their day. Whether the house was half an hour off schedule or not...

"Well, what Mr. Carson doesn't know can't hurt him. Isn't that right, Thomas?" Mrs. Patmore smiled unbearably cheerful, as she handed him the coffee that was to go up straight away. The raven-haired ex-footman grumbled something incomprehensible. He was supposed to be a valet now. Still, Lord Grantham hasn't hired a replacement for the last footman who couldn't hack it. He sighed and turned on his heel, not stopping to hear what Daisy's encouraging words were this morning.

"Spoilsport," she pouted, wiping down one of the mixing bowls, "You think he would like the mornings. They serve themselves aside from the coffee. Or the tea."

"Maybe he just isn't a morning person," Alfred offered before grabbing a tray of new pastries Lady Cora just _had_ to try.

"Never mind, Mr. Barrow. We all know no matter what time of day, he's _NEVER_ in a good mood," Mrs. Patmore spoke up again, "So, Alfred, you get those pastries up and Daisy, you should've finished washing those LAST NIGHT!"

* * *

Meanwhile, upstairs, another Thomas was entering breakfast. Tom Branson, well-known socialist, former journalist, and current exile from his homeland didn't want to wake his lovely pregnant wife. Sybil needed her rest. So it was no surprise that he sat alone opposite Edith, the only Crawley daughter brave enough to attend breakfast it seems. He smiled at her and towards Matthew, who'd entered the room behind him, and then listlessly dragged himself towards the prospect of a warm cup of tea.

As the future Earl of Grantham sat down, Thomas slid effortlessly into the room from the opposite doorway. Carrying the post, well, a single letter really. That didn't bode well for anyone if it was that urgent.

"What is it, Mr. Barrow?" Matthew asked calmly. No, _pretend_ calmly. Ever since Mary found out she was pregnant with twins, he's been nervous, to say the least. Tom can't blame him. Two kids at once. And here, everyone was going on and on about the succession of Downton. Well, there's about to be both an heir _and_ a spare, God willing. Maybe then everyone will calm down.

"Mi'lord, it's news for Mr. Branson. From Brooklyn, a lady, sir. Judging by the handwriting," Thomas said, his Mancunian accent strangely thicker and with a curious glint in his eye, one that even he couldn't get rid of. It's only when Matthew looked at him that he understood. What Thomas and Matthew both thought was... Branson shook his head, "Do you know me so little?" He was now gripping the tablecloth like his life depended on it, "Do you think of me so... So..." He couldn't form the words.

"But a strange American woman writes you, one we've never heard of, and you get the letter while Sybil is still asleep... What are we supposed to think?" Edith sounds more like herself from 3 years ago, Branson thinks.

"There's an explanation for all of this, I hope."

"Yes, there is, Lord Grantham." Force of habit. Dammit, Tom. Still, it couldn't hurt with as much hot water as he's landed himself in. Well, they say communication is key. "I want you to know that I... I would never... Sybil is my soulmate if such a thing exists."

"Go on," Cora prompted.

"But she's not the only woman that's dear to me. That came out wrong. Let me explain, the woman from Brooklyn..." He gulped as he shakily took the letter from Thomas' still outstretched hand.

"Yes?" Matthew looked even more concerned, his face had gone pale.

Tom sighed, "The woman from New York, from Brooklyn is my sister. My younger sister." Matthew just smiled, "Well, my good man, why didn't you just say so?" Tom barely registered Edith's excitement as he tried to ignore the sense of relief that spread throughout the room.

"Because... Because of prejudice and scandal. I much as I loathe either word."

"As we are aware by now, yes." The Dowager Countess replied succinctly as she entered the room followed by a sleep-deprived Mary. "Oh, Tom. Please, do ignore Granny."

Tom took a breath electing to ignore Mary's vicious early morning sarcasm, "You see... My sister, Sorcha, was disowned by the majority of our family."

Even the Dowager Countess seemed shocked, "Whatever for?" The implications... Tom could read every guess on their faces... Except the right answer. Typical, as much as he loved them, the Crawleys could never understand - would never be able to understand Ireland. Or _this_ ,he hisseda little before properly finding his voice again, "She married a boy from a few streets down. Quiet lad, firm head on his shoulders..."

"In other words, a perfect match," the Dowager looked at him as if to ask, "What was wrong with him, then?" He can feel his shoulders tensing up and his heart beating like a drum, the unspoken words hung in the air. After an even longer moment of silence, "Joseph was a Protestant - a Unionist at that. Had big dreams of whisking my sister away, to cousins of his in Ulster."

" _Had_? Forgive me, but if they were planning to go to a cousin's house in Ulster... How did they end up in New York of all places?" Cora spoke up again enraptured with, what she no doubt saw, as a romantic yet _dreadfully_ Irish retelling of the age old star-crossed lovers.

It made Tom a bit sick as he realized how she was treating his reveal of a family secret - one that wasn't even _his_ \- as if it were Romeo and Juliet. Still, Tom bit back a smile at how pronounced her American accent was as she said, New York.

"They... eloped. Part of the reason my mother thought us foolish for doing nearly the same. Then..." Another large breath and without realizing it, he was crying, "He died. In New York. I never knew until _after_ I'd left for Downton. Sorcha never told me from what, but I can guess..." Tom choked back another sob as he mumbled, "Sorry, hardly a topic for breakfast."

"Nonsense," Cora cooed instantaneously as everyone -including Tom- was still stunned by his breaking down into tears. "Mr. Barrow, head down and ask Mrs. Patmore for the _birthday surprise._  She'll know what I'm talking about." Thomas rushed out the door he'd entered - only some ten minutes prior. Feels like ages. Cora, then turned to Matthew, "Help me move him into the library. No one can see him, not even the servants. For our reputations as well as his. And you, Mama..."

"I am well aware of what to do in situations such as these. More than you might think, Cora. Come along, Mary, Edith. It's high time we wake your sister and go visit Cousin Isobel." "But— But– We're not children anymore." Cora scowled at her middle child, "Well, you certainly are acting like a child, Edith. Now, go with your Granny."

Mary looked at her sister. "Edith, let's go. We're no help here." Reluctantly, Edith left Tom there as he was. Bowled over, on the carpet, sobbing his eyes out uncontrollably. No one can remember how he got from his chair to the floor but it hardly mattered. Robert knew it was best to just make himself scarce, so that's what he did, only after making sure that the path to the library was clear. Cora grabbed the unopened letter hurriedly, watching as Matthew helped his brother-in-law to his feet and down the corridor.

* * *


	2. Post Confessional

The _birthday surprise_ Cora had mentioned had turned out to be some Irish whiskey for Tom. The gift had been well-intentioned, a taste of home for her son-in-law. However as it turns out, from conversation with Sybil and Edith, Cora learned that Mr. Branson didn't even _like_ whiskey, much less drink it. So stored away it was, the idea jokingly referred to as Robert's fault amongst their daughters and that was that. Until today that is, months past Tom's September birthday.

Cora looked him staring at the unopened envelope, trying to recompose himself after the _incident,_ whatever it was _._ Sipping a drink he didn't even enjoy to calm his nerves... Suddenly Cora felt very aware of herself and took the opportunity to leave Tom and let him read the news from his sister in private.

Matthew stayed, at Tom's request. "Tell you the truth, I'm afraid. In ways I haven't been since before I left Ireland." Matthew rolled his eyes, a habit he'd clearly gotten from Mary. "Well that, by now, is clear," Matthew asked calmly, "But what is it that you are afraid of?" The rain outside the windows made the room seem darker and smaller than it was.

Tom made a small, indistinguishable noise, setting his glass down in front of him. "My sister has been a nurse, in a large hospital. Since before Joseph died, but now... In her last letter, she mentioned the need to take on extra shifts."

That makes sense, Matthew supposes, if she's a widow and needs to keep a roof over her head in a country that is not entirely her own. That makes perfect sense, actually.

"She's worked the TB wards for over two years now. Now, I'm afraid of what this one will say. Matthew, my nephews... God, I've never even met them." Nephews? Branson... Tom has had nephews this entire time? No, that would also make sense... For his first two years here, he was just a servant. Although Matthew idly thinks that Tom would _still_ have his objections to anyone being called just a servant.

"What are their names? The boys, your nephews, I mean." Tom looks up from his shoes, still confused a little.

Matthew takes this in stride, "Well, whatever their names. They are about to be the cousins of the future lords and ladies of Downton."

Tom laughed a bit, blinking away tears, "You're right. I'd almost forgotten that. The eldest is Seán, but from what Sorcha tells me, he's often mistaken as the younger brother. Tiny blond scrap, takes after his father like that. And then, there's Seamus. Everything his half-brother isn't, tall for his age, dark hair. Sorcha said that the only thing they have in common are their blue eyes."

"A Branson family trait, then?" Matthew smiled, ignoring the part about them being half-brothers for a second.

Tom nodded, "No one knows where it comes from but, yes. Joseph had green eyes, for example. But Seán got our Branson blues..." Matthew couldn't help himself from chuckling, "Branson blues? Sounds like the name of a jazz record." Thankfully, neither could Tom. "An old saying of my grandmother's actually. The family legend is that a Branson has never been born without blue eyes."

Matthew smiled again, "No pressure on Cousin Sybil." Tom shook his head, "None indeed. I'm not one for superstitions. That was always more of my sister's realm. Sorcha was the one to believe in the  _bean-sídhe_  and the _faoladh_." Realizing why Matthew was looking at him completely dumbfounded, he quickly translated, "Banshees and werewolves." 

" **Really**?" 

"Believe it or not, the werewolves are actually _nicer_ than the banshees." 

"I'm sure they are, Mr. Branson. But... Lord Grantham..." "Needs to use his own library. Thank you for reminding us, Mr. Carson."

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Branson. I'm glad you are feeling sure of yourself once more."

"As am I. C'mon, Tom. I'm sure we can continue this conversation elsewhere," Matthew said as he practically drug Tom from the library.

* * *

They ended up in smaller upstairs library that was, apparently, across the hall from Edith's old childhood room. Tom still knew so little about his wife's family, sometimes it infuriated him. Despite _working_ here for two and a half years, and _then_ becoming a member of the family, that lack of knowledge still bothered him somehow. Still, he was glad to have Matthew, who even if he wasn't from a working class background, was definitely challenged by the Crawleys when he first arrived. Maybe not to the extent Tom had been after his marriage to Sybil, but challenged by the Dowager nonetheless. And any man who has survived that and lived to tell the tale, deserves a medal in his eyes.

"So you have told me before. Open the letter, Tom. It _has_ crossed an ocean to get from your sister to you."

"Right," Tom sighed, the pit of fear hadn't quite left his stomach. He tore open the letter with his hands, refusing to use the letter opener Matthew had tried to give him. Who needs a fancy knife just to open a letter when you have fingers and thumbs? The answer, someone who didn't want a paper cut as Tom soon discovered as he preoccupied himself with sucking the blood off of his thumb, Matthew laughing at him. "I'll go and get you a plaster from... somewhere."

"Mrs. Patmore keeps a box in the kitchen. Or at least she used to. In case one of the kitchen maids accidentally cuts themselves." More like in case Daisy cuts herself... but Tom could never say that. Now, could he? No, as strange as it still felt he _was_ a member of the family now.

Matthew smiled and left, off in search of the mythical box of plasters that Tom vividly remembers being next to the bag of Mr. Carson's favorite coffee beans. The ones he orders in bulk with his Christmas bonus and has to have last him the entire _next_ year.

Somehow the thought made Tom feel even more alone than he already did, physically being alone in this library. That, despite being the smaller of Downton's two libraries, is nonetheless 3 times the size of his whole house growing up. Home, Wicklow, Sorcha. He remembered then, the letter that was still in his hands... The one that was now a little bloodstained because of a paper cut.

_Dear Tommy,_

_What to say? What can I say to my fierce, unyielding older brother? Simply, I'm dying. Tuberculosis in conjunction with my diabetes. It's become unmanageable, my kidneys are starting to fail. I had a feeling this day would come. I know you don't believe the way our grandmother taught us to, but Tommy, I heard her. I heard an bean-sídhe. Earlier this morning. That is why I've chosen to send ~~Steve and Bucky~~ Seán and Seamus to you. To Yorkshire. I'm already scared for Seán's health and I fear it'll grow worse the longer he stays in this ~~tenement  no slum.~~  The longer he stays here, in Brooklyn. Seamus' father has long run off with a new conquest. A girl from our neighborhood who has inherited a good deal of money. I almost feel sorry for her, the new Mrs. Barnes. Not that I ever was in the first place, but I entrust you shall keep those secrets to yourself. After all, they do fall on our family, the good and the bad, as Mam would say. _

_I miss you, Tommy. The boys look forward to meeting you. All I told them was they are going to meet their new baby cousins in England. Which I know you and Mam would hate, but a white lie seemed better than nothing. And that's all I could give them here. Nothing._

_I love you... I'm sorry. I hope you can do better than I. Enclosed are copies of every document you need to take custody of the children. As well as my will making it so. They will arrive within the week. I can't be sure when. I haven't bought the tickets yet. Again, I love you and I'm sorry for putting you in this position. You'll be a wonderful father. To all of the Branson children of this generation, regardless of their surname._

_- ~~Sarah~~  Sorcha Clodagh Rogers_

* * *

Tom was in shock. Not only was his sister at death's door but she's sending Seán and Seamus here. Both of them? It was overwhelming and frightening. What if _they_ refused? Tom was no fool, Robert tolerated him for appearances and until earlier today, he thought the same thing about Cora. But he (they?) did so for Sybil's sake and to avoid a scandal, not because he (they?) had any love for him. To them, he was the Irish revolutionary who _seduced_ their daughter. Never mind, the reality of the situation. And now, he'd be bringing two more Irish children who the Dowager would just as easily believe were, "Socialists-in-training".

Then he thought of the alternative, the boys raised in an orphanage or children's asylum. Best case, taught by nuns and raised as good Catholic boys but in a home with no love, surrounded by other little lost souls. The worst cases of which there were many, the absolute most evil was the most likely. The boys getting split apart, adopted out to different homes, never to see each other again. Tom had heard of it happening before. In some instances, he'd even read that siblings' names had been changed and their heritages destroyed as they grew older. Seán was 11 and Seamus just 9. They wouldn't remember, not like older boys could.

Tom sighed, he would have a lot of explaining to do with Sybil and discuss this with Robert and Matthew. All he had was the hope they would say yes. Which he figured they'd have to, if they didn't want Sybil to disown _them._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact : Sorcha's middle name, Clodagh, is a feminine name derived from a river that flows through both County Wexford and County Tipperary. I chose it as a very self-indulgent reference as County Tipperary is where my Irish ancestors are from.


	3. Frank Conversations

Tom looked at his wife, almost too nervous to ask, "Sybil, what's wrong?" She looked up from re-reading the letter for the fifth time, "What's _wrong_?" Tom was confused, "Do you _not_ want them to come stay?"

She gasped, "How could you ever say such a thing? They are our child's cousins— Or, at least they soon will be..."

"Then talk to me. Tell me what's wrong." She laughed despite looking absolutely heart broken, sitting there at the edge of their bed. " _You_ — You thick-headed Irish mule. If I wasn't eight months pregnant and you weren't on the other side of this room... I.. I— Well, I don't know what I'd do exactly, but you wouldn't like it." He opened his mouth, but her words were quicker, they always had been. And always will be.

"It's not that I don't want them to come. Of course, I want them here. I do. It's the fact that you neglected to even mention _her_ — Her existence. I— All of the stories you told me, about your childhood. The Branson brothers against the world. They were all _lies_." She spat the word like it was a curse.

"No, that's not true. You're twisting my words." 

"Twisting _your_ words? You never told me you had _a sister_. A sister, Tom. You erased her, and for what? Because she didn't marry a good Catholic boy. Was _that_ it?" No, Tom thinks, I was one of the witnesses at their wedding. But he doesn't say that. He can't bring himself to say that. Not yet.

Sybil's next words cut like ice, "What hope does that give our baby? Our marriage? _I'm_ not Catholic." And now Tom wants to scream... but instead all he can do is feel his throat close up. "You're a hypocrite, Tom Branson." He clenches his jaw, biting down on his tongue. Then he does what he's been trying to avoid for the past week. Tom, he explodes.

"So what if I am!? A hypocrite? God, would that be so wrong!? Sybil, darling, I'm trying my best!" He shouts.  

"I know! I **know** you are!"

"Then, what's wrong? Sybil, _talk to me_."

"Why do you keep asking that!? And I am talking to you. You just _won't_ listen."

Suddenly he shook his head, chuckling, "Honestly, I've no idea. Suppose it's because I've had a long week, which is no excuse..." Later, by years, he realizes what he was trying to ask, "How can I fix this?" Ever the chauffeur. He kicks himself over it for nearly a month.

For now, Sybil smiles, the tension dissipating as easily as it appeared. "I didn't mean to call you an Irish mule. It was supposed to be a joke." 

"Didn't feel like it," he grumbles as he walks closer to the bed and sits beside her. "I'm sorry, love," he mumbles into her shoulder as he cries.

"No. No, you have nothing to be sorry about. Your sister is dying. An ocean away from you as well. Those simply are the facts. Awful as they may be." She sighed, rubbing small circles into his back, "If I learned anything when Downton was a hospital, men deserve a good cry just as much as women."

"You sounded like Mrs. Hughes a bit. Like you were doing an impression."

Sybil laughed, " _An impression?_ I should hope so, she's a wise woman. Have I ever told you about the time when I was a little girl... Mrs. Hughes had caught me eating _all_ of the chocolate in the kitchen?"

Her sniffly husband looked up at her, "No, never."

"Well... I couldn't have been more than 5 or 6. She was looking for her, something in the Servant's Hall... A pair of scissors, I think, and Edith and I had made a game of sneaking away from Nanny..."

* * *

Eventually, Sybil convinced Tom to go to sleep despite it being midday. He needed the rest. And if she, say grabbed the letter to go get advice. Well, her husband would be none the wiser, would he? Suddenly, Sybil felt much more like Mary than she did herself. Nonetheless, she was sure that Downton was founded on everything but scheming. It was founded on asking for help. Upstairs and down.

"Mrs. Hughes?" 

"No, m'lady. I'm sorry to disappoint." Sybil smiled at Daisy, at the top of the stairs, who seemed a little startled by the post-breakfast but pre-lunch interruption. "Should I go... get Mrs. Hughes for you?"

"Oh, could you, please?"

Daisy seemed concerned. "Is there something wrong, m'lady? I just... If it's the baby or Mr. Branson, maybe we should call Dr. Clarkson or get Lady Cora." 

"It isn't the baby, Daisy. I just need some of her time and a bit of advice," Sybil appreciated the concern but well, her ankles were killing her and she didn't have time for _this_ , "But if she's already gone down, it can wait."

"Forgive me, Lady Sybil, but that's nonsense. I'll go find Mrs. Hughes, Daisy. I was going to go fetch something anyway." Anna replied simply, heading past Daisy and back down the stairs, to the Servants' Hall entrance.

Daisy nodded, unsure what to do. An awkward silence formed between them. "I don't want to hold you up if you still have work..."

"No, m'lady. This were the last room that the housemaids needed help dusting," She said closing the still open bedroom door behind her. It was Cousin Rose's room last she visited, Sybil barely recalls. "I need to sit. Please." In fact, she feels quite dizzy.

"Of course, Lady Sybil," Daisy said quickly, opening the door again and helping her to the edge of the bed, choosing to ignore the shocked stares of the new(er) housemaids Charlotte and Alice. "Lottie. Allie. Go find Anna for us, please. And Mrs. Hughes as well. No one else." 

"Why? Why me?" The blonde one, Alice if Sybil had to guess, asked snottily. Meanwhile the ginger, Charlotte, calmly set down her duster on the nearby end table. Barely sparing a second to glare at Allie and sprung into action, checking Sybil's pulse. Alice scoffs and storms out the door.

"She _was_ rude," Daisy commented boldly, if Mr. Carson was to ever hear her say it. Charlotte nodded in agreement, "She's kind, truly, m'lady. But not long for service, that one." Sybil smiled as Lottie timed her heart rate, glancing up at the clock. "If anything, I'd say she's a bit like Mr. Barrow. Doom and gloom. Yet—"

"Acts like the universe revolves around her," Sybil finishes for Charlotte as the smile dies on her lips, as she realizes what she said and in front of _whom_.

"Apologies, m'lady. I didn't mean anything by it. I-I know you and Thomas, that is, Mr. Barrow served in the war together." Sybil literally waved away her concerns, "It's fine. I'm sure if there's one thing Mr. Barrow can handle, it's good-natured teasing. Just don't let Mr. Carson catch you being so _impertinent_. Smoke will be coming out of his ears."

Stifled laughter all around (even from Daisy, who still looked like she was about to turn green) and a couple of seconds more, and Charlotte looked up from Sybil's wrist, "Your pulse seems good, as well as your heart rate. Dr. Clarkson can confirm but..."

"Not that I'm ungrateful, of course. But how did a fellow nurse end up in service?"

Char— No, Lottie smiled proudly. "War's been over almost 2 years, m'lady. Very little work for a nurse outside of London, and the county hospital's at full strength. So I'm a housemaid, as was my mum before me. Besides, we nurses have to stick together." Sybil laughed, "I suppose so! Thank you, truly."

* * *

 "Lady Sybil, is something wrong?" Mrs. Hughes asked carefully as she entered the room, "And if I may, why ask for me, dear? Instead of your mother or the Dowager?"

Sybil, lacking the words, passed her the letter. Mrs. Hughes read through it once. Then twice, for good measure. "Oh. _Oh_ , I see. My condolences." Sybil took a breath, "I want your advice."

"Me, m'lady?" Sybil gave her a look, and she softened, "Well, I'll be honest. I've never had much experience with children..." _Apart from a generation of Crawleys..._ Sybil thought idly _._ "Neither have I, Mrs. Hughes, but you do have your sister, and while I know it's not the same... Well, Seán is _sickly_ , from what Tom has told me."

Mrs. Hughes moved closer to the bed, "Sickly is a lot different from 'not right in the head'." Sybil nodded. "It is, but I'm about to go from one child to three. And, Seán particularly, I think... Well that, he will have the hardest time... adjusting."

"Oh, m'lady. I understand your concerns, but we got your husband there, didn't we?" Sybil smirks in a way Mrs. Hughes hasn't seen since she was a girl, and then she sighs. "Still, he will need a special diet, diabetes, inherited from his mum." Mrs. Hughes considers this for a moment. "Poor thing. We can ask Dr. Clarkson, and then Mrs. Patmore. If he truly needs a special menu."

Sybil sighed again, "Asthma too. In fact, it's probably best I draw up a list." Mrs. Hughes shook her head, "Let me and Anna take care of it. You've enough on your plate as it is. And I _will_ inform Her Ladyship, at the very least." Sybil knew better than to argue, even if that did mean _another_ visit from Dr. Clarkson, _and_ Tom fussing.

"Now, is there anything else you require, m'lady?" 

Sybil's eyes dulled, suddenly feeling absolutely drained, "No, Mrs. Hughes." 

"Then I'll let you and the bairn rest. Dr. Clarkson can come in _after_ you've had a nap."

* * *

 It was _hours_ before another person entered the guest room, long after dinner. Surprisingly, it was the last person Sybil expected. "Papa!" He was carrying a fold-out tray, usually only employed when someone would get ill or he wanted to surprise Mama on their anniversary.

 _Breakfast-in-bed,_ she called it _, how American_.

"Your mama told me where to find you, after Matthew and Tom broke the news to us at dinner," his voice was barely above a whisper, like it was one of her old childhood secrets shared just between them. "I'm sorry, Papa. I didn't know what else to do. They're Tom's nephews, and his sister entrusted them to him. And I—" Sybil choked back a sob.

He quickly left the tray on the vanity, and comforted his youngest daughter. "Hush, shhh, shh, my darling. My little Sybbie. It will be what it will be. Now, to borrow a phrase from your Mama's American vocabulary... Are you sure?" She dried away her tears, as he simply looked at her. His youngest daughter, now a woman, pregnant with his first grandchild and about to take in two orphans, even if they are her husband's family... A Shakespearean comedy life is not. 

"Yes, yes, Papa. But I must admit, I"m definitely feeling overwhelmed." He nodded, remembering to get the soup off the vanity before it gets too cold. "Are you interviewing to be a footman for Mr. Carson now?" She teased as he placed the tray across her lap. "Hardly," he rolled his eyes, "Although I did tell your Mama once that I thought I could be a passable valet, in my younger years of course."

She laughed again, before picking up her spoon and beginning to sip the broth. The Seventh Earl of Grantham simply smiled at her, his darling sweet Sybil - a second before she realized broth was accidentally dripping down her chin. She tossed a pillow at his head with her left hand, her right still balancing the spoon. And he dodged it, backing out of the room with laughter... Before standing up straight, clearing his throat and of course, going on to deny that such a childish encounter ever occurred.

Still the exchange put a smile on Lottie's face as she hastily rounded the corner to avoid being seen - making a mental note to fetch that pillow from the hall, once Lord Grantham had gone, to avoid it being seen by the other staff.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I succeeded in creating a Sybil-led chapter as I'd necessarily hoped... But I wanted to create a bit of a parallel between Sybil and Mary in this chapter, reflecting on Mary's canon relationship with Mr. Carson. I mean, as much as Mary views Carson as a father figure, I have a feeling that Sybil would equally view Mrs. Hughes as a maternal figure.
> 
> Also, I know the exchange between Sybil and Lord Grantham might be a little OOC or "modern", but he's trying to be silly and cheer up his youngest daughter. In a moment like that, rank and position don't matter as much as family. Like it or not, Robert still only sees his little girl and what twenty-something wouldn't throw a pillow at their Dad's face if they were embarrassed.
> 
> PS : I was going to write a St. Patrick's Day themed mini-chapter exploring the Crawley family's "misconceptions" (ie blatant ignorance) about Ireland and more generally, Catholicism. However, since this one took so long to write, and I'd want to do proper research before tackling such a mini-chapter... I think Seán and Seamus' arrival will have to be moved up in my internal timeline of this story. They were supposed to arrive after the mini-chapter. Now? Who knows? I can't make any promises... Needless to say, I can't write a mini-chapter by tomorrow. Apologies - Kieran Connor Smoak


	4. Preparing To Go (Sailing Away)

No choice, Sorcha Rogers has ever made in her life, was made easily.

* * *

Not about politics : women's suffrage, trade unionism, Home Rule or self-government (whichever Ireland prefers in the end).

_The hours on street corners distributing pamphlets before and after church. Shadowing her older brothers, as they slipped Socialist readings into the newspapers Tommy sold. But only if the men seemed sympathetic or if they'd seen them at meetings earlier in the week. Years getting into fights that she never needed her brothers' help with, despite Kieran's insistence._

Not about love : first, Connor Sullivan, then Michael O'Brien, a regretful time with George Townsend, and finally, the man who swept off her feet and carried her an ocean away, her Joseph.

_Her first crush (Connor), first kiss (Michael), that church hall dance (George), meeting a special someone outside in the rain (Joseph)._

Not about leaving Ireland especially : eloping and running off with the clothes on their backs and a shared suitcase besides. Landing in a nation where her name was used ( _ **Joseph**_ was lucky) as a weapon and speaking Gaeilge earned them sideways glances on the street. So she changed her name, became Sarah, the newlywed _from_ Brooklyn. So be it, if their accents never fully left their tongues, they stopped speaking the language that brought them together. In that way, America had won.

_An odd pair they made. Her, a Republican with brothers and cousins spreading the word about the Cause, as well as fighting for it. Him, a Protestant art student a year from leaving for London. They met in an Irish language class, back home. Her, eager to (re)learn what the Brits had stolen from her tongue. Him, almost dreading how clumsily the words fit in his mouth, only taking the class to pacify his Mam and expressly against the wishes of his Dad._

Not about family : Seán born too early and so sick, even in mid-summer. Joseph dying three months on. Her taking a position as a nurse, one of the doctors _Barnes_ taking a shine to her _too well_ for a married man. In her grief, her letting him.

_The midwife told them he wouldn't last the night even before the doctor arrived. Father Patrick was called first. An accident at work, Mr. Jacobs had said, what happened he never told. It was a closed casket funeral. Seamus, born almost two years and a half after his brother. No one saying a word, but everyone knew why she avoided that park, or that church, or that street. She could've seen Barnes there or worse, his **mother**. _

Publicly, she soldiered on, but privately, dreaded what anyone in Wicklow would think. Much less God. An adulteress, widowed once, but what a _fine_ excuse... Her firstborn, not even the _proper_ one. The _second_ was the healthy one, strong as an ox. Such a shame that James was the bastard. He would've been a credit to the Rogers' name, but then he isn't, is he?

* * *

Not that she minded. Soon enough, the neighborhood moved on, in a way that she knew would've never happened in Ireland. But this was New York, _not_ home. Years and years passed, her sons looking so different was attributed to _their_  father : a misconception she didn't correct. Mrs. Rogers didn't have the heart and it wasn't as if a scarlet _A_ had been ordered across her chest. That her eldest never seemed to grow, except in the list of illnesses, was penance enough. Tom kept her informed best, still she didn't want him to worry. Even without his nervous tendencies, Tommy was in England now. So his news about home had become as secondhand as hers.

Then she had gotten sick. The Tuberculosis wards were dangerous, it wasn't hard to see why those were the only extra shifts. And to her credit, she lasted years beyond what everyone expected from _the Irish girl_. Not only in health but insults, as well. The amount of times she was accused of theft or being anything less than sober... "Well, it isn't worth discussing, Steven _."_ (Seán had become Steven after he'd started Sunday school, same happened with Seamus. Now, James.) Though, he preferred Bucky. She hated it. It was the one thing she'd allowed Barnes, when the naive thought of him doing right by her was crushed. Seamus. Buchanan. Barnes. 

The President Buchanan had been minister to Russia once decades ago. It was the first name _the Bogdanovs - the Bogdanoffs - the Barneses_ had recognized in the New World. Four generations on, the name clung to her son like a curse. As did the phantom heritage of a father he'd never know and another living father who didn't deserve him.

Another month, maybe two. At best. "Dear, Tommy..." She wrote wherever she could. "My diabetes in conjunction with tuberculosis..." She rested whenever she needed. "Knew this day would come. Sending Seán and Seamus to you in Yorkshire." She finished the last couple sentences in the hospital. "You will be a good father. To all of the Branson children of this generation, regardless of their surname."

James asleep in the uncomfortable chair. Steve kneeling at her bedside, looking up at her... Idly picking at the hospital blanket as she wrote the last few words, before handing it to him with a nickel and ordering him to return from the front desk with 3 penny sweets. One for each of them. This is enough of a distraction, Sarah hopes, that he won't get too nosy. She _hates_ it when she's right.

* * *

This choice, however, was the hardest.

* * *

Sarah waits until James is awake and Steve has returned from the short errand. "Seán, Seamus, my handsome boys." For those handsome boys, that was the first bad sign. She only ever called them by their Irish names if they'd gotten in trouble. "You aren't in trouble. I am. Boys, I'm very sick."

"Sicker than Stevie's ever gotten, Ma?" Jam— Seamus asked gravely, with a cold, resigned tone no child should ever have. She nodded and in a whisper, breathed out, "Yes." Then Seán grasped her hand, petting it softly. They both knew what this meant, and yet, had no idea at all. Sorcha smiles weakly, "You remember your Uncle Tom, from my stories about my home? About Ireland."

Seamus nods slowly, while Seán answers her cheekily, "Tá, níl, níl a fhios agam." She purses her lips but lets her son's _attempt_ at being funny go. Unfortunately, Seamus caught on to this and asked, "Cad é mar a bheifeá ag súil go ndéanfaimis cuimhneamh air? Éireann?" She took a deep breath, "I don't, but what I'm about to say is important. Do Aintín Sybil é ag dul go bhfuil leanbh."

"A baby?' Seán's face lit up and Seamus looked bored. "Yes, an leanbh. All the way in England. Which means since I'm so sick, you need to go visit them for me." Finally, Seamus' eyes lit up as bright as his brother's as he realized there would be an adventure involved.

* * *

She reached for two more letters on the bedside table. One addressed to Seán and the other to Seamus. To be read in a few more years, when they were older. Then, Father Jameson came in and told the boys to wait outside. He took the time to administer last rites, say his goodbyes, and gathered the boys' coats for them, a moment after Sorcha slipped the letters in their coats. The last she heard of her darling sons was Seán calling Seamus' name and Seamus laughing in response. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine the scene that had just happened. Seamus dawdling in front of the door that shut barely a moment ago, Seán telling his brother to hurry, and Seamus laughing before racing down the hall towards Seán and Father Jameson.

* * *

On their way back home, to collect their things and pack Joseph's old suitcase. The very same one a newly-wedded couple once shared in that long, far ago.

Then off to see their baby cousins. As it should be, but not as it is. She made the sign of the cross and prayed. Then she smiled again, English Bransons, who would've thought? And with an Earl's daughter.... She shook her head slightly. After all, Tommy was  _always_ the most surprising.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I would do a little something different with this chapter. This is my first try at seriously using flashbacks. Short snippets of Sorcha's memories she reflects on her life. Don't worry, the boys will get to Downton next chapter. I just felt that I wouldn't be doing Mrs. Rogers justice if I didn't give her a chapter of her own.
> 
> Glossary
> 
> "Tá, níl, níl a fhios agam" - yes, no, I don't know.
> 
> "Cad é mar a bheifeá ag súil go ndéanfaimis cuimhneamh air? Éireann?" - How would you expect us to remember it? Ireland?
> 
> "Do aintín Sybil é ag dul go bhfuil leanbh." - Your Aunt Sybil is going to have a baby.


	5. Their Arrival

It wasn’t long now. Via her congregation, Mrs. Rogers sent a follow-up letter, clarifying a few details. Such as when the children would be expected to arrive. The letter had simply said to expect the pair at the Downton Station, first thing in the morning today, accompanied by Father Dominic and a Father Jameson.

Tom, no doubt, had asked Father Dominic for his help escorting them from Ripon. But as little as Robert knew about the dealings of the Catholic church in Ripon, he knew there was no Father Jameson there.

He asked Tom about it but Tom didn’t answer, as he was driving all of them to the station. Robert was surprised by Sybil’s response, ”He’s an old family friend, Papa, on Tom’s side. He transferred to New York years ago to start up a charity for Gaelic-speaking mothers who were having trouble finding work in America, due to the language barriers.” "How noble," Edith complemented. "He's more of a mentor to me, really. There’s no one else my sister would trust to make sure the boys got here safely.”

And thank God he was there, Tom would never forget this. "At least, they didn't make the trip alone," Cora commiserated. Ever since the sinking of the Titanic, she has always hated the thought of sailing. "Better than the alternative, Mama. Flying in a plane sounds absolutely  _terrifying_ to me." Sybil responded but Edith disagreed, "Funny, Sybil. I thought you'd be up for flying. Aren't you always one for _adventure_?" Sybil titled her head, "Adventure, yes, Edie. Not being launched into thin air in a glorified tin can." Robert just paled in the backseat, sitting in between his bickering daughters. Tom caught the miserable look on his face in the rearview mirror and just laughed.

* * *

It didn't take any longer than usual for them to get to Downton Station nor was it incredibly crowded either. That was certainly a relief as Robert, Cora, and Edith all had their own train to catch. Edith and her mother were apparently going shopping while Robert had some small business errand to run in London, what Sybil didn't say. What she did mention was that they were going to be staying for a few days at Grantham House.

"So upstairs, it'll be us, Matthew, and Mary at the Abbey?" He asked as all of his in-laws left - sister-in-law included - left earshot. "Yes," Sybil said simply, "I- _We_ wanted the boys not to be overwhelmed with family. It was Mama's idea, Papa already had his business meeting, and Edith agreed to push up her plans to meet Cousin Freddie by a week." 

Ah, yes, the mysterious Cousin Freddie who only ever sends a Christmas card and even then it sometimes arrives in June. Nevertheless, Tom couldn't help but feel relief. Introducing the boys to the concept of a household staff was going to be hard enough, never mind the idea of bombarding them with _well-intentioned_  (if completely sheltered) members of the English upper-crust. Times were changing, certainly, if Tom and Sybil's marriage was any evidence to go by... However, just the thought of any son of Sorcha's meeting _Violet_ was extremely taxing. Both to the mind _and_ the soul.

Speaking of souls... Tom craned his neck over the crowd and it took him a second, but soon enough, he spotted Fr. Dominic and there he was - Fr. Jameson. He hasn't aged a day. Well, apart from the gray now streaking through his black hair.

Tom took off in a dead sprint, nearly out of breath towards the end of it, "Father Jameson! Father Jameson! Has it really been this long?"  He smiled as if he was still a schoolboy, wet behind the ears. Father Jameson turned and grinned from ear-to-ear. "Going on 15 years now, lad. Last I saw you, you were 19 _and_ 5 inches shorter."  

"I always was a late bloomer." Tom grumbled but as he was about to say his next sentence, Fr. Dominic cleared his throat and pointed behind the pair of Irishmen. There stood a very _cross_ Sybil. "Thomas Branson, I am eight-and-a half months pregnant! You can't go running off like- like an excitable puppy! Do you _want_ me to have the baby in _Downton Station_ of all places!?"

"No, I'm sorry, darling. I just got carried away." Tom paled and the grin was wiped clean off his face.

" _An leabh_?" A small blonde face peeked out from around the corner. "Yes, and you must be Seán, I take it?" He nodded shyly, "Yes, miss."

" _Mrs_ ," Sybil corrected with a small chuckle,"But I can forgive that. After all, it keeps me young."

Fr. Dominic almost laughed himself, but instead replied sweetly, "My dearest, you _still_ are so young.  Only twenty-four."

"Oh, thank you."

Tom quickly tuned their quiet pleasantries out, unsure of what to say to _eleven-year-old_ still partly hiding behind the station's red brick wall. "Where's Seamus? _Cá bhfuil do dheartháir?_ " Seán shook his head, "Ma says I shouldn't talk to strangers. Even if they're speakin' Irish." Tom nodded, knowing Sorcha's protective streak and Brooklyn's reputation, that, that was sensible advice.

Although it did sting a little to be called a stranger by his own nephew, Tom took a step back and introduced himself, "My name's Tom and while we've never met, I'm your uncle." That shut down all of the pleasantries that were going on in the more adult conservation next to them. Fr. Jameson waved him forward and Seán came out of hiding awkwardly. "We talked about this, Seán. Meeting your Aunt and Uncle at the station." 

He frowned, even as Fr. Jameson put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and then admitted, "I know but I'm still a little scared." Tom nodded. _It was scary. And, he was an adult._ "Can we wait for Seamus to get back?" Seán asked in a small voice, addressing Sybil. "Of course, sweetheart. We weren't going anywhere without him."

Seán breathed a sigh of relief, his Branson blue eyes shining. "Let's start over, shall we? I'm Sybil, your Aunt. And that ginger buffoon over there is your Uncle Tom..." Sybil replied sweetly as Tom mouthed "Buffoon?" all offended over Sean's shoulder. Seán, well, he just giggled. Careful to shift his weight back and to the left to stand as straight as his scoliosis would allow with the added weight of his suitcase still in hand.

Tom was about to grab the suitcase when a taller, dark-haired boy rushed ahead to take it from Seán's grasp, which he _willingly_ relinquished. "There ya go, Stevie. You should'a told me you're back was hurtin'..."

That's when he noticed Tom standing in front of him, Tom having moved back around to stand with his wife. Seamus, to his credit, without dropping the suitcase, marched up to his (previously) estranged Uncle and shook his hand. "Seamus Buchanan B—" Tom cut him off quickly, "Seamus Buchanan _Rogers_ ," before anyone else could hear, and gave him a pointed look.

While times had changed enough as far as marriage lines went, some things still (unfortunately) held true. Tom couldn't help thinking about Nuala, and the true love she'd never be able to provide her "sister". Also to his credit, his youngest nephew simply blinked and turned to Sybil and murmured, " _Comhghairdeas_."

"Thank you, but a little birdie tells me you prefer Bucky."

"Yes, m'am," Both Fathers looked at Bucky and he realized his mistake. "I mean— Yes, Aunt Sybil." Tom just laughed, which _also_ earned _him_ a stare-down from both priests. Seán just grinned because his brother was getting in trouble and he wasn't.

* * *

 Eventually, more than satisfied that the two boys would be left in safe hands, Fr. Jameson and Fr. Dominic went to book return passage to Ripon on another train. It wasn't long before both Seán and Seamus were sat in the backseat of a _very_ borrowed car, each flanking their pregnant Aunt. All three of them dozed off as Tom drove, taking the backroads so it would be more quiet for them and scenic for him. It wasn't too late, mid-afternoon, but there was enough of a cool summer breeze in the air just to make him sleepy. So he went the long way because the last thing anyone needed on these roads was an accident. With that in mind, Tom took extra care in getting them home.

He avoided Downton Village because no one in _The Family_ had spoken about the boys' arrival yet. At least, not publicly. Violet's orders. Though Tom had no doubts that if Mrs. Hughes had told Anna, Anna would've told Daisy. And Daisy could easily let it slip to the new scullery maid who lives with her Gran in the village part-time... So while the cat hasn't been in the bag for, at least, the past month... No one needs to tell the Dowager that. Still, there was a heavy sigh of relief that washed over him as he pulled into the drive and _didn't_  see her car waiting. There was just Mrs. Hughes, Mr. Carson, and Anna waiting for them, by the door.

Taking a steady breath, he shut off the engine and got out of the car as quietly as he could. "They all fell asleep on the way here, Mr. Carson. I don't want to wake them, especially not the boys but—" Anna smiled for just a split second, and took her hand in his, "We'll figure it out, Tom. Now, go, get some rest yourself." She then let go of his hand and took a step back. _Damn rules. We were family, once. Not too long ago._ "As much as I may _dislike_ Miss Smith's _impertinency_... She does have a point, Mr. Branson," Mr. Carson allowed begrudgingly. "Yes, get yourself settled, dear. Thomas and the other footmen can bring any bags in. And to be frank, you look _exhausted_. And where would your Mum have us then? Especially with her grandchildren here as our guests? _Go on_."

He nodded to Mrs. Hughes, in deference and in appreciation, before walking past them and Mr. Moseley (who'd answered the door) and dragged himself towards his bed.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost a month after I started it, it's HERE! And FINALLY done!!!
> 
> Bit of a preview : Next chapter will be downstairs at Downton. All of the downstairs staff and their reactions towards the "new kids". And maybe Seán and Bucky will go exploring and bump into a few recognizable faces who knows...? All I can tell you is that Carson won't be pleased. Oh, and Bucky's "secret" will be left to simmer for a while. Meanwhile Sybbie could be making her grand entrance any minute... Sybil has been pregnant for forever, I know. BUT I will say no more, my lips are sealed. Until next time... 
> 
> Glossary
> 
> Cá bhfuil do dheartháir? - Where's your brother?
> 
> Comhghairdeas - Congratulations.


	6. Introductions Below The Stairs

* * *

Mrs. Roger's children are most definitely a force to be reckoned with. That is, when they are together. If apart or separated by some means, the pair of brothers _will_  fold like a deck of cards. Or at least, that's what Mr. Carson seems to be telling himself. Thomas J. Barrow, on the other hand, knows better. A series of little known facts about Mr. Barrow, the valet,

  1. His middle name is Jonathan.
  2. His family is (ostensibly) Catholic. He, himself, is lapsed. ( ~~As was his father before him.~~ His mother was always more devout.)
  3. His older sister isn't his only sibling. He has three younger brothers.



While the first fact is irrelevant, the other two are much more germane to the arrival of the two young American lads. The second means, while he may not be on speaking terms with God, he knows how much trouble two boys can get into on the way back from Mass. The third is testament to the fact that once back home, he is well aware that that trouble won't end when they reach Downton.

And Tom... well, _Mr. Branson_  is off with Mr. Crawley surveying some of the dilapidated cottages, after _their_  dinner. "Determined to be co-estate managers? That's a little odd?"

"Alfred, I should hope that your mum taught you to use common sense. Seeing as you haven't learned to use it, go take one of the hall boys with you and re-polish the silver."

Alfred wilted at the prospect of having to polish the silver _again_ , but he eventually trudged away on Mrs, Hughes' orders. "Miss O'Brien isn't going to like that," Daisy said what everyone was thinking, while Anna didn't hesitate to respond in kind, "Won't Mr. Carson be upset with you for punishing Alfred?"

"Upset, yes, but it was the only way to keep the poor boy away from her this evening. What with the Family being in London apart from Lady Sybil, Mr. Branson, and Mr. Crawley..." She sighed.

"No one to serve this evening?" Thomas looked up from his hand of cards almost _almost_ hopeful. 

"I asked, of course, but apparently they decided to go down into the village. To the Grantham Arms," Mr. Carson announced as he entered, Thomas didn't bother with standing. Then again, neither did Mr. Bates. _Sometimes, the Cripple Club has its advantages_ , Thomas thought wryly as he rubbed his aching hand through the glove. "Mr. Branson thought it would be less of a _culture shock_ to his nephews."

"Culture shock, culture shock. What does that even mean?" Mrs. Patmore grumbled, clearly taking offense. "Frankly, I've little idea myself, Mrs. Patmore. Especially if those boys will be _long-term guests,_ " Mr. Carson replied simply before retiring to his office.

Mrs. Patmore laughed, "Long-term guests? So we're a hotel now, aren't we?" "Well, _those boys_ don't have anywhere else to go," Daisy pointed out, slightly mocking Mr. Carson's tone. "And, at least, they seem sweet," Anna added with a small laugh. 

"So it's true what they say, when cat's away, the mice _will_ play," Tom whispered cheerfully with a grin, still done up in his Sunday best, albeit with his hat in hand. "Tom- Mr. Branson, is there anything you require? Or perhaps Lady Sybil-" Mr. Branson shook his head quickly. _He still finds being addressed as a member of the family awkward._   _Interesting._ "No, Mrs. Hughes. However, a certain pair of my nephews wish to say goodnight. Well, hello and goodnight." A hint of a smile played, even on Thomas' lips, as the two sleepy boys were led in by a not so-quiet yet equally conspiratorial Lady Sybil, slowed down somewhat with baby Melody in one arm.

Anna immediately stepped in to hold Little Mel and show Lottie and Daisy how big she's gotten. As for Sybil, she stepped aside to stand with Mr. Branson, careful and quiet observers of the boys' charming introductions with the downstairs staff. The _second_ English half of Sybil's family. _Of course, Mr. Carson would never admit that. He'd sooner die, nonetheless, it was the unspoken truth._ Thomas supposed.

* * *

Tom smiled at Sybil, out-of-breath from managing the Servant Hall's stairs with an infant. She was radiant in the fireplace's light. "Y'know, M'not a ginger."

"What?"

"I'm not a ginger. At the train station. You said I was ginger. I'm not."

"Oh, what would you call this then?" She replied with a tug on one of his longer strands of hair. _He needs to go to the barbers soon._

"Auburn," he shot back in the low whispering tone the whole Hall was caught up using so as not to disturb Mr. Carson. ~~More like wake him up~~.

She simply hummed and graciously took Melody back in her arms as Ivy was looking a little green around the gills, so to speak. Lottie rolls her eyes and tries to hold it together. She can't help herself, as the boys  _finally_ say goodnight to Jimmy, she bursts out into a fit of giggles and asks, "Where? I mean, Tom, you have  _brown_ hair."

"Charlotte! That is Mr. Branson to you. And this visit, while out of the norm, is _hardly_ going to be customary. Isn't it, Lady Sybil?" Mrs. Hughes was looking for a return to order, restoration, clarification. Something they all knew was going to happen eventually. A return to the decorum and structure. Sybil relented, "You're right. Boys! Seamus, Seán. Time for bed." Begrudgingly they pulled themselves out of their brilliant story about going to the Natural History Museum to see dinosaur fossils last summer. "It's okay, Miss Daisy. We can finish the story next time," Steve said and trudged up the stairs after his little brother.

"Next time?" Mrs. Patmore repeated. "All respect where it's due, we do have work."

Tom nodded. "And I'll make sure they know that," he shrugged, "I just, I don't know..."

"Still feeling trapped at the top? Poor Tom."  Anna empathized sincerely. "Yes, poor Tom," Thomas responded half-out-of-habit and half-snark. Tom ignored him, bade everyone goodnight, as he still had to sneak his nephews back up two flights of his stairs without getting caught by Nanny. Besides, upon reflection as Tom was climbing the stairs, Thomas was only miserable when he _didn't_ have someone else to make miserable.

Though, he did have a point. This was a design of his own making. But how long would they stay at Downton? A year or two ago, it was all so clear cut. At least, when it was just him on his own. Two or three years here as the chauffeur and then take the money back home or head to America with Sorcha waiting in the wings for a reunion. But now, he doesn't know anymore.

Where would they even go if they left the Abbey? He can't go back home. The fucking Home Office made sure of that. The irony isn't lost there. New York without Sorcha isn't an option. Not when they've waited for Seán and Seamus to come from America for so long. Neither is Boston anymore, for the same reason. Liverpool means Kieran and as much as he loves his brother. _No_. So where, then? A question for another day. He settled into bed next to his darling wife and was snoring in under a minute.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a short chapter that took so long. I graduated high school and I've been trying to figure everything out. Mentally, I'm all over the place so writer's block for a long time. As always trying to shift between perspectives to show different facets of not only life at Dowton but also the wider world of the '20s in general. I think I've learned (by now) not to make promises regarding any future chapters. So until next time, enjoy! (Hopefully)


End file.
